


Arms I know so well

by Heelshire_Mansion



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heelshire_Mansion/pseuds/Heelshire_Mansion
Summary: It’s cold for her, the porcelain’s lifelessness accentuated by the rest of him and the way he presses against her, as if their bodies are meant to merge into one.
Relationships: Greta Evans/Brahms Heelshire
Comments: 2
Kudos: 103





	Arms I know so well

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Title stolen from Arms I Know So Well by Emma Ruth Rundle ~

The night seeps in through the windows. They’re in the bedroom, standing with darkness between them, ambient light turning their bodies into dark silhouettes; he prefers it that way, Greta can tell. 

Even in the light of day, Brahms hides from her. He’s there, always present, making sure she never feels the crushing loneliness he did for so many years. On his worst days, he’s nothing but a shadow at the edges of her vision, the sound of footsteps a room away, knocks and bumps inside the walls. Then, on days like this, he will come out. He speaks to her from behind the porcelain mask - he refuses to take it off unless he absolutely has to, listens to her stories of the outside world, and asks the strangest questions. It’s been a slow process, helping him heal, letting herself do the same after all she’s been through, but this is it; this place that’s made up of only the two of them and the world of differences between them is all they need.

Yet, Greta finds herself wanting more. Right here, hidden from the rest of the world, all she wants is him and, judging by the way his hands make quick - if somewhat sloppy - work of her clothes, she suspects he might feel the same way. 

His hands are trembling, fingers colder than she’s used to and she holds a breath as they brush against her stomach. Brahms must sense this, the smallest of movement as her skin shies away from the sensation, because he stops. He’s pulling away, but Greta isn’t going to have any of it this time. She takes hold of his wrists and she accepts all that he is, all that he’s done. 

“Brahms…” It isn’t really a warning. Her voice soothes his nerves and sends his heart into a frenzy at the same time, she feels it in his pulse; it makes her feel powerful, wanted. The urge to kiss him is there again, and - thank all gods - he’s been thinking the same and leans down before she even finishes the thought. 

It’s cold for her, the porcelain’s lifelessness accentuated by the rest of him and the way he presses against her, as if their bodies are meant to merge into one. 

Greta takes matters into her own hands then, tired of this endless back and forth, knowing that, if she lets go now, if they part, Brahms will retreat again, deny them both what their bodies have been asking for for so long. 

“Let me see you,” she whispers it, and he shivers at the urge to obey her then and there, rip off the mask and face her as he is. As soon as the thought takes root though, he shrinks back, afraid. She will reject him this time, he’s certain. He can’t be what she wants, not really. Surely she is confused and, any moment now, she’s going to pull away and shut him out. He’s a man broken, pieces of him torn apart, disfigured, missing and _ who would want him. _ As if she can hear his thoughts, she adds, “I want you, Brahms. I want all of you.”

She leads him to the bed, and he lets her. Greta doesn’t want to force this, but the need for him is all consuming, scorching every inch of skin he touches, burning her from the inside out. 

Brahms falls on the bed first, the mattress giving under his weight. He’s surprisingly heavy for how thin he looks, his long limbs adding to the illusion. She’s transfixed by the shape of his curls, even though they are a mere shadowy suggestion in this dim light; the sum of his body is a contrast of curves and angles, soft and sharp, and oh how she craves to map all of it, to be closer to Brahms Heelshire than anybody else before her. 

Because Greta knows he’s new to this. Even the smallest of things seem to fascinate him, the slightest touch makes him fumble and writhe as she straddles him, his long fingers slowly, hesitantly, beginning to explore any parts of her they can reach. 

His heart is thundering in his chest, and for a moment he feels a wave of panic at the thought that she might be able to hear it. Her expression is a mystery to him in this darkness - a fact that makes the nervousness in the pit of his stomach that much worse, but he feels the straps of his suspenders move, feels nails lightly tracing their way up to his chest as his tank top is pushed out of the way and he forgets it all. The sound that leaves his throat is unrestrained, deep. His hips buck towards her, seeking out something he knows he needs but can’t put into words. 

“Please, Brahms.” She can tell he understands what she’s asking for, because he freezes. 

The mask has been a point of contention between them before. Greta understood its importance eventually, how it gives him a sense of security and familiarity in a world that has suddenly been turned upside down after two decades of stagnancy.

“Yes,” his reply comes after what feels like an eternity of his chest rising and falling beneath her, his breathing offbeat and unstable.

The mask’s surface is hard and cold under the tips of her fingers, the edges dulled by time and use. Then, with nothing but faint shapes to guide her hands in the dark, Greta pushes it aside. 

She can’t see him, not with her eyes, so she lets them fall shut. It’s an entirely different world she senses now, but it’s exciting - a new way of seeing Brahms Heelshire. Coarse hair gives way to soft skin, his lips part under her fingers. She finds his nose, follows its aquiline shape upwards, to its bridge and the edges of his eyes, until something stops her. The skin has changed, rising unnaturally, bumps and ridges running from the right side of his nose all the way down his cheek. Brahms sucks in a breath, his eyelashes tickling the tips of her fingers as his eyes close. 

His hand flies up, grips her wrist, but doesn’t force her away. Greta doesn’t move either. There’s nothing left to hide now.

Her hair falls around them as she leans down. Lips brush against the scars, starting with his jaw - where unkempt beard gives way to the first signs of scar tissue - and move to his cheekbone, planting feather light kisses as they go. Brahms shudders at the way her breath fans out over his right eyelid, her scent enveloping him, and the only thing he dreads in that moment is that she will stop, that it will all come to an end.

Love is something harsh, tightly controlled and measured. It’s nothing like this - he had been taught as much his entire life. This gentleness is new, and his first instinct is to reject it, to hold on to the last vestiges of what his parents had hammered into him from an early age. He resists. His chest tightens with a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time and Brahms seeks it out, lets it take hold of him. 

Greta’s lips are soft on his as he turns to meet them and, oh the sensation exceeds everything he had ever dreamed of. Her hand on his chest reminds him to slow down, that she’s there to stay, yet his own grip tightens on her hips absentmindedly. He says her name between kisses, breathlessly, and, for a moment, he almost believes this  _ is  _ a dream.

“Touch me,” she says between kisses and moves her hips just so, eliciting a groan from him. He can’t do anything but nod, forgetting that she can’t see him. Still, she knows somehow, her fingers wrapping around his, guiding them past the waistband of her panties.

He’s hard beneath her, his fingers sloppy but eager to please, taking her unspoken instructions easily. They stroke and explore almost reverently, and Greta finds herself almost self conscious until he finds her clit. Her muscles lock, and sweet mercy, how long has it been since someone’s touched her like this? 

Suddenly, she can’t take it. This slow dance, this cautiousness she’s come to associate with him - no matter how unexpected it might seem of a man who showed no hesitation or remorse in killing Cole - it drives her crazy. Impatient, that’s what she is as she fumbles with his pants, wrapping her fingers around him as soon as he’s free of the fabric. His long drawn-out moan spurs her on, ignites the lust she’s kept at bay for his sake. He slides inside her easier than she expected, his size still stretching her deliciously.

“Greta…” he whimpers, and she can tell she’s going to have bruises by the way his grip tightens. She bites her lip and moves, the slight pain only adding to the pleasure. She’s wet - wetter than ever before she thinks, but it still takes a while to work his entire length inside her. When she does, she thinks she knows at last how it feels to be complete.

Here, in the darkness of this room, there is no need to pretend. At last, she’s free, and she  _ takes. _ Brahms is at her mercy - shivering, moaning, something building up between them that she longs for. Her name has never sounded like this; it’s never been whispered with such reverence, never spoken with such need. She moves up, teases him, hopes to find a breaking point. The danger of it excites her. 

His hands cup her breasts, and they fit so well, like he was made for her - only for her.  _ Mine, _ her mind whispers,  _ all mine. _

“Brahms,” she moans and clenches around him, trailing her nails along his chest, imagining the red lines bloom across his skin. 

It must be the final straw for him. Greta isn’t surprised; he’s never been very patient. 

Without warning, he pushes up, takes control away from her. He looks so frail at times, that Greta forgets how easily he can overpower her and, as her back hits the mattress, she finds she loves the reminder. 

“Don’t stop,” she breathes, her legs wrapping themselves around him, her hands tangling in his hair. He growls in response, any and all sense of propriety, of good modest behaviour, leaving him. Hot - he’s so hot against her. She lets her nails find his back this time, draws blood down his shoulder blades. 

He doesn’t stop. He rocks inside her with so much force that she hears the bed creak, the wood protesting at his frantic rhythm. She’s muttering nonsense, drunk on pleasure, chasing the high he’s so determined to give her. His breath is loud and heavy in her ear, lips brushing against her skin with a gentleness the rest of him seems to have forgotten. 

Then, it stutters. 

He buries his strangled cry in her neck and Greta would think it the most beautiful sound in the world if her own climax didn’t hit her a fraction of a second later. Green eyes roll back, lips parting, and all she can do is lose herself in his arms. 

Nothing matters now, nothing but them. They are one. 


End file.
